Shopping With Benefits
by Mingsmommy
Summary: Previously posted at LJ's cmrossiprentiss comm for Smittywing for the Christmas fic exchange. Christmas in DC, Emily helps Dave shop, Dave pays attention. This has lots of dirty words and adult activities.


**Author's Notes:** When you're nervous about writing for one of the best authors in fandom the best thing you can do is get another of the fandoms best writers to beta for you. So many thanks to **wojelah** for being incredibly helpful, kind and teaching me. Also many, many thanks to **smacky30** for cheerleading me through this whole thing, I wouldn't have made it without her. This was written for **smittywing** for the cmrossiprentiss exchange at Live Journal and was previously posted there. I was especially excited because she has done so much for me and taught me so much. But I was also nervous because I know I couldn't write anything nearly good enough for her. I hope you enjoy it, **smittywing**. Love you much.

Her prompts were:  
1) Clashing traditions.  
2) Christmas shopping together.  
3) Lingerie as a present.  
4) Christmas in DC. (Maybe the tree-lighting?)

* * *

"We got him." The voice of John Powell, the head of the Secret Service detail for tonight's National Tree Lighting, crackles over Emily's earpiece and she looks up at Rossi, three feet away, making sure he's hearing the same thing. "He didn't even make it to the Ellipse. Gotta say though, as much value as Agent Morgan provides by serving his country, he should have played with the NFL; I've never seen a defensive tackle like that." She hears several answering chuckles, some through the earpiece and some close to her in the crowd. They're more from relief than actual humor, though she sees Rossi grinning and she can feel herself smiling, but they've _seen_ Morgan do it.

The crowd mills around them. Children in mittens and hats jabbering excitedly while dragging either indulgent or harried parents through the crowd, completely unaware of the averted crisis or the danger they had been in until just a moment ago. The ceremony hasn't officially started yet, but there is currently a choir onstage singing Christmas carols to warm up the crowd. Dusk is fading with a rapidity that is nearly startling and darkness settles over the city. Emily thinks about the sun still shining for Diana Reid in Las Vegas and of her mother asleep in Dubai where it's the middle of the night, and time seems unfathomable, the properties of light and dark interchangeable.

"Thank you all for a job well done," Agent Powell says, and he sounds sincere. "I'm not sure if things would have gone as smoothly without the help of our colleagues in the FBI. I'll be sure to send the appropriate kudos to your bosses over at the Bureau." The Treasury agent a few yards from them turns, nods, and begins moving against the crowd, away from the tree, but she and Rossi stay where they are, eyes still sweeping the crowd, listening as John Powell continues, "We've got it from here. Thanks again and enjoy the tree lighting."

Emily taps her receiver twice, watching as Rossi does the same thing. It takes a few seconds to click in to the new channel, but she knows without seeing that Morgan and Reid are doing the same thing.

"Prentiss?" Hotch's tone is crisp.

"Here," she says into her sleeve, watching as her breath turns to fog in the cold air and drifts away.

"Rossi?"

"Present and accounted for," Rossi says in his dry tone, the one that always seems to make Hotch just a little bit nervous, the one that says he's a glass of Scotch away from telling everyone a really embarrassing story about Hotch's early days at the BAU.

"Good to know. You, unaccounted for, is a dangerous thing." This time Hotch's tone suggests any ammunition he has on Dave is way bigger than whatever Dave has on him. Emily's eyebrows go up as she looks at Rossi, but Rossi just blinks at her, completely blank, obviously trying not to telegraph anything. _That's interesting,._ she thinks. Her first instinct is to wonder what secret of Dave's Hotch could know, because Dave is the antithesis of Hotch when it comes to personal disclosure: everything is thrown out in the open with a _take it or leave it_ attitude. Whatever it is, it's obviously newly acquired and _good._

"He fit the profile." Morgan sounds tired and a little bit grumpy, interrupting whatever is going on between Hotch and Rossi.

The chorus chooses that moment to burst into a rather energetic version of _Joy to the World_ and it explodes both from the chorus members and the speakers dotted around the crowd. The combined noise of the singers, the speakers and the feedback from the transmission causes Emily to wince and she sees Dave do the same as Morgan cries, "Damn!" Rossi inclines his head and Emily follows toward the back of the crowd, further away from the stage, steering clear of any speakers.

"Agent Powell seemed confident as well," Hotch continues as if they all haven't just put their eardrums under major duress. "We're done here. I'm taking Morgan and Reid back to the office. Prentiss, you can file your report tomorrow. Goodnight."

The transmission goes dead and Emily looks at Rossi, wondering what's up with Hotch. Usually he likes to regroup, set eyes on everyone, make sure everyone is covered to either get home or make it back to their car. Of course, it's entirely possible from the sound of Morgan's voice that he had hurt himself tackling the unsub and was being too stubborn to see an EMT. And, after all, Hotch did know she and Dave were working this section of the crowd together.

It's happens more often than not these days, the two of them working together. Of course she still partners with Morgan or even occasionally Reid, but Emily is pleased by how often she and Rossi are paired up. She tells herself it's because they work well together, that there's a seamless flow in the way they communicate. Still, even if Hotch is the one who put them together tonight, it's a little unusual for him to just call it a night without making sure she's got a way back to Quantico.

Mentally shrugging, she looks at Rossi. "Well, I guess you're my ride."

Dave gives a little nod and moves closer to her. "My pleasure," he says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his black cashmere coat. "Did you want to leave right away or do you want to stay for the festivities?"

Emily is a little surprised; she didn't figure Rossi would be a tree-lighting, traditional type of guy. The traditional, yeah, she can see that, but she can't really see him enjoying something like this. It seems too ordinary, too mundane for his sophisticated tastes. But then Rossi has always baffled her. Like a lot of women, she's equally charmed and disconcerted by the man. Okay, if she's honest, maybe she leans more toward the infatuated than merely charmed, but that doesn't mean he doesn't surprise her. Sometimes she thinks she has him completely figured out, and then he'll say or do something that scatters her ideas about him to the winds.

She had talked about it once with, of all people, her mother. About the disregard for authority, the unbelievable arrogance, the stories of his exploits in the early days of the BAU, his seeming old fashioned manners coupled with his modern ideas, the amazing loyalty, the lengths he'll go to for a colleague or a friend. Her mother had waved a hand, "He's the best at what he does and he's proven it over and over. Add some money and the arrogance is a given. As for who he was fifteen or twenty years ago?" She'd leveled Emily with a look and picked up her wine glass. "Would you want to be judged today for something you did a decade or two ago?" The ambassador saluted Emily with a jaunty toast. "I can tell you I don't. The very thought horrifies me. Make no mistake, darling, wisdom is acquired through foolishness."

His head is tilted in her direction and one lock of hair has dared to escape his usually perfectly combed style and is drooping over his forehead; she has a nearly unbearable urge to reach out and smooth it into place. She wonders what it would feel like under her fingers, then she realizes what she's thinking and blinks at herself.

The infatuation has been in place since before she'd ever met him. Luckily her excellent compartmentalization skills and his tendency to be an arrogant asshole had tempered it fairly quickly. However, in the last couple of years, the more they work together, the closer they get, the more she has to keep shoving Rossi and everything to do with him in his neat little box and try to keep him there.

An eyebrow quirks. "The fate of the world doesn't depend on your answer, Prentiss. If you have plans, just say so."

"No." Emily shakes her head. "No! I was just surprised. Doesn't seem like your kind of thing."

Rossi pulls a face. "Normally, maybe not. Not because I wouldn't want to, but because I'd think about the traffic and the crowds and the parking and be a grumpy old man and stay home." He gestures around them, and suddenly she sees it all anew, not with FBI agent eyes, but with fresh eyes, the eyes of someone who loves Christmas. The lights, the decorations, the smiling faces of parents, the beaming faces of the children, the music, the hum and the chatter. "But we're here and it's happening, sort of seems like a good opportunity - so, if you don't have any plans..."

"No," she smiles and takes a deep breath of cold air, catching the scent of the trees. "I don't have any plans."

"Good," he smiles back at her, his hand finding the small of her back as he navigates them through the crowd. "My toes are already numb; shame to waste that."

Her laugh rings out, and she digs in her pocket for her gloves.

There is, she admits, a certain amount of unavoidable magic to being here, in this moment. It's freezing, and she hears more than one person say something about snow. It's crowded, although that sort of helps with the whole cold thing. But there's a collective excitement and a childlike wonder to the event that can't be manufactured. And for all she's seen of the world and all the sick things people can do to each other, there is some small part of Emily that remains innocent, that clings to her childhood ideals, so she's not really surprised when an unconscious "Oh!" slips from her lips to join the thousands of others when the President and his family flip the switch, and the lights go on on the tree. Dave grins at her, and thankfully, doesn't give her any grief about it. After all, it's why they'd stayed, isn't it?

All of the performers come on stage for the closing number, and Emily smiles at the awed faces of the children around her when Santa Claus shakes the President's hand. It's likely a perfect moment in a child's eyes, she thinks; something they will remember their entire life. It's beautiful and magical, and she's glad they stayed.

"That was nice." She bumps her shoulder against Rossi's as they move with the momentum of the crowd.

"It was," he agrees.

Traffic, however, is not so nice. The National Park Service had provided them with a choice spot to park, but the best parking spot in the world wouldn't make this traffic any easier. A helicopter, maybe, but not a parking place. Rossi is remarkably gracious about it. "Once in a lifetime experiences are worth a little traffic."

"How do you know it's once in a lifetime?" she queries, holding her fingers in front of the SUV's vents, sighing as the warm air hits them. "You could make this a yearly tradition."

He purses his lips and tilts his head in a reluctant show of agreement. "I suppose, but tradition doesn't hold much appeal for me any more."

Surprised, she turns to him. "What? I thought..."

He looks away from the road for a minute and gives her a look that is half-amused and half-questioning. "You thought what?"

Emily shrugs, flushing a little, thoroughly caught. "I tend to think of you as more traditional, I guess. Old fashioned," she says without much thought.

He cuts another look her way as he brakes behind a line of mini-vans interspersed with taxis. "Old fashioned or just old?"

"Whatever," she says dismissively and shakes her head. "I guess I thought you'd have all of these old family traditions."

Taking his hands off the wheel for a minute, he makes a gesture that says more clearly than words _I'm not sure I can explain_ and says, "I used to, a long time ago, I guess."

She has a sudden, horrifying thought. "God, Dave! I'm sorry."

His brow furrows. "What?"

"Because of the Galens?"

Shaking his head, he turns back to the road and the now moving traffic. "No, things..." He sighs. "I grew up with all of that...all of the traditions from the old country; La Vigilia Napoletana, struffoli, midnight Mass, my nonna's ceppo, la Befana." He smiles and he looks a little distant and a lot fond. "My mother and both of my nonnas were devout, so I spent a lot of time in church during December."

Emily gives a soft laugh in response. "I can imagine."

"I went into the Marines right out of school and got shipped overseas. I spent a few years in Japan, I couldn't come home for Christmas, of course and, yeah, at Christmas they did their best, but it was still the Marines, it was still Japan, it wasn't home. Then when I got home, my nonna died and I got married and then it was the traditions fight and whose family did we go to when? By the time that one ended, my pop had passed and Mama wasn't interested in celebrating the holidays any more." His fingers tighten on the steering wheel. "Then add two more marriages and that's two more fights over traditions and fights over money and presents and how much one of you drank at the office Christmas party."

Seeming to realize his hands are clenched, he uncurls them, leaving just his palms on the steering wheel as he flexes his fingers. "Yeah, I suppose the Galen case played a part, but these days it's more about letting the people I care about know that than whether you open presents Christmas Eve or Christmas morning."

"Christmas morning," Emily supplies, trying to lighten the mood. It's not that she objects to listening to him, she'd listen all night if he'd talk all night, but she feels like she's opened a wound and she wants to give him an out.

"Are you nuts, Prentiss?" His disgust is palpable. "Christmas Eve after midnight Mass."

"Ah, well, we went to church Christmas morning."

The look he gives her is incredulous. "I thought your mother was a good Catholic."

Emily gives a little laugh. "She is. There just always seemed to be some function on Christmas Eve, so we always went Christmas morning."

The glow of the headlights in passing cars let her see his cheek lift with his smile, and she feels something inside ease. "What else did you do?"

It's Emily's turn to shrug. "Everything and nothing."

Rossi gives a little bark of a laugh. "What does that mean?"

"My mother thought it was-" Emily makes air quotes "-'diplomatically practical' to celebrate the holiday according to the local custom wherever she was posted. Which is great, when you're in Italy, but in Saudi Arabia, not so much."

His wince is pained. "Ow."

"Yeah." She adjusts the seat belt and turns to look at him. "It was still illegal to celebrate Christian holidays then. Even though we could have celebrated at the Embassy, the Ambassador felt it was politically correct not to. It's supposed to be better now." She remembers the bleak feelings of disappointment and the embassy's staff quietly exchanging gifts and the little packages several of them had given her with the occasionally whispered _poor kid_. "I hope so." She gives herself a mental shake. "But Christmas in Italy was fun - and in Spain, too."

They've finally made it to 395 and traffic is moving much quicker. "So, what's tradition now?"

Emily laughs. "Eat a lot of cookies and spend too much money?"

Rossi smiles. "Sounds perfect."

"No." She reaches out and touches his sleeve. "Your new tradition actually sounds perfect."

The look he gives her is soft and makes her want to put her hand against his cheek, let him lean into her, so she could feel the weight of his face against her palm. Her thoughts have surprised her again; she feels herself flush and is grateful for the dark.

Saturday finds her at the mall.

She's just left the Sephora with three new lip glosses when she spots him. Though, really in this crowd, two Saturdays before Christmas, she wonders how she notices him at all. Maybe it's the familiar tilt of his head as he studies the store window or maybe it's his confident posture: hands in his pockets, body open. She doesn't know, but whatever it is her head turns to him like a magnet seeking metal, and she begins walking towards him.

When she sees the window display he's studying, she smiles ruefully. "The models don't actually hang out at the stores, you know."

He turns his head at the first sound of her voice, and though he doesn't flush or flinch, she can tell she's caught him out and he is as close to embarrassed as David Rossi is ever going to get. "Emily. Hi."

Giving him an elbow to the arm, she nods towards the Victoria's Secret window, trying to reign in her curiosity and swallow a trace of disappointment. "Shopping for someone special?" She wonders at that twinge, the brief letdown, then decides she might not want to look too closely at it anyway.

He looks back at the window and shrugs. "I was just wondering who they're appealing to here."

The display window, instead of being filled with lacy bras, silky panties and daring nightgowns, is full of faceless mannequins garbed in long-sleeved and flannel lounge wear in soft grays and palest pinks. Emily gives a little laugh. "Women who are exhausted from Christmas shopping?"

He gives a small grunt of agreement, then turns to look at her fully. "And just for the record, I have been told in the past, in no uncertain terms, that giving a gift of lingerie is like giving a gift to me. So, if I had someone to buy lingerie for, I wouldn't buy it for them as a gift."

"You know, different women might look at it differently." Dave's eyebrows go up and Emily feels herself flush slightly, but continues anyway. "It's sort of flattering to know a man wants to see you in beautiful things, that he thinks _you're_ beautiful and wants to see you in something he thinks you'd look hot in."

He's silent for a moment, just looking at her; she knows the flush must be darker now as she feels her face start to heat. "Received a lot of lingerie as gifts, Prentiss?"

Briefly, she debates between rolling her eyes or sticking her tongue out at him. "No, not a lot." She quirks a smile and lets her embarrassment fade. "Which may be why I wouldn't object if someone significant gave me lingerie as a gift."

There's a gaggle of teenagers bearing down on them, most of them dressed in black, a few of them wearing ridiculous looking hats. They're having a discussion about something that has several of them righteously indignant and they are focused on each other, not where they are walking. Rossi takes Emily's arm and shifts her out of the path of gangly limbs and self-absorbed conversation, a little closer to the Victoria's Secret, a little closer to him. _He smells good,_ she thinks, absorbing the clean scent of his aftershave.

"Sorry." He looks sheepish for a minute, and she remembers how he sometimes has to choose between his manners and not appearing paternalistic or chauvinistic.

"No, thanks." She grins. "I would have been run over in a cloud of teenage angst and poorly applied eyeliner."

Both of his eyebrows go up again. "Considering the pictures I've seen of you from high school..."

Emily pops his shoulder before he has time to finish the sentence. "Don't even. Besides, high school is how I know about teenage angst."

"And the eyeliner?"

Her nose goes in the air primly. "Just because it was dark does not mean it was poorly applied."

Dave grins and Emily smiles in return.

"So, who are you shopping for? I would've guessed you'd already be done." While most men have the reputation of waiting until the last minute, she's sure Rossi has lists and a closet filled with things that have been purchased and professionally wrapped. Well, those that weren't being shipped direct to the recipient.

"Almost. The internet is a wonderful thing." He shoves his hands back into the pockets of his coat. "I have one person left to buy for, but everyone else is done."

Emily shakes her head. "God, I wish I was that close. I'm barely half way done." She holds out the Sephora bag. "I only seem to be able to find things I want."

He tilts his head and looks at her for a minute, as though he's gauging something, evaluating a situation, making a decision. "Are you spending the day at the mall?"

Emily makes a moue. "Not sure about the whole day, but I need to put a dent in the list, so, yeah, probably a good chunk of it."

"Do you mind if I tag along with you?"

She gives a startled laugh. "Wait. The great David Rossi wants to hang out at the mall all day with me? Aren't there ducks to be killed or books to be written or something?"

He purses his lips at her in disapproval. "I need help, Prentiss."

"What kind of help?"

Taking her arm, he guides her down the corridor a little, further out of the path of the foot traffic. "The person I have left to buy for is special."

The spike of disappointment is back, but she doesn't let her face reflect it. "I'd think you'd have the whole present buying thing down after three marriages and a love life that is practically legend."

He frowns at her; it's the usual deflection they all see when they tease him about his romantic exploits, but she swears she sees a flicker of something more this time. Disappointment or hurt, maybe? "It's not like that."

Emily gentles her voice, makes her tone compassionate. "What's it like?"

His eyes flick over her face, that same evaluating look. "It is a woman; but we're not... we're friends."

There's so much there in his voice, more than his words, there's hope and fear and hesitation. It's completely un-Rossi-like and that, more than anything, tugs at her heart and makes her pay attention. "You want more?"

He doesn't directly answer the question, just chews on his lip for a minute. "I'd like to buy her something. Something to let her know she is special, but not something so overwhelming she couldn't ignore the implication if she wasn't interested."

Emily is sure her surprise must show in her face. "I've got to say, that doesn't sound like you."

He tilts his head. "How so?"

"You've always seemed to me to be more the _I want it, I'm going to go out and get it_ type." Emily hitches her purse strap further up on her shoulder.

Rossi shifts out of the way of an obviously harried mother pushing a stroller. "Would you believe I'm learning patience in my old age?"

She shakes her head. "No."

He gives a sharp bark of laughter and nods. "Okay, not. But I have gained a little bit of - if not patience, then let's call it common sense." He leans a shoulder against the wall. "We see each other a lot and if I pursued and she wasn't interested, well, I know she'd feel awkward and embarrassed. I don't want her to stop thinking of me as a friend, even if she can't think of me as more."

All Emily can think is any woman would be a fool to not want more from David Rossi. She knows he's not perfect; he's arrogant and aggressive and can be a flaming asshole when someone is standing between him and a goal. But she also knows he's generous and loyal and would move mountains to help someone he cares about. He is who he is and makes no apologies for it and, as far as Emily is concerned, none are necessary. She remembers a cold day and Rossi overriding Hotch and somehow getting him to call the Vatican. _The Vatican_ - every time she thinks about it, she wants to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it. In the face of all that, what's a little shopping? "So, what's our price range?"

The smile he gives her is slow and soft. "Whatever it takes," he says simply.

"What's she like?"

He looks at her, his expression serious again. "She's smart. Funny. Independent. Brave."

The _brave_ makes her brain skip for a second. Is it someone from work? That would make sense, because that's where they spend the majority of their time. But as her mind sweeps over the possibilities, she rejects most of them as not nearly good enough for him. Of course, he might not have meant bust the door down brave, he might have meant brave in facing life's difficulties, then it didn't have to be someone from work. "Is she into fashion?"

"She's beautiful." While it's not an answer to her question, the way he says it makes her stomach do a little flip from the sheer warmth and intensity of it.

"Does she collect anything? Have any hobbies?" She doesn't miss the quick frown and she holds up a hand. " I'm not playing detective or being nosy, it's just that I can't help you shop if I don't know something about her."

He gives her that same assessing look, and she wonders if she's passing whatever test he's running in his mind. "Look." Dave stops and starts again. "I don't really want you to-" Now, he does seem embarrassed in a way that has nothing to do with being caught staring at Victoria's Secret's windows. "She's younger than I am and I'm just afraid I might be too old fashioned. If I could just tail you today, and you could talk me through - well, that would probably give me some ideas."

Emily looks at him and her heart squeezes a little; she wonders what it is that's kept him from a lasting relationship. Yeah, she knows he can't be easy, but he's such a good man, he's got to be worth it. "All right." She holds out the Sephora bag to him.

He looks at the bag, then up to her face. "What?"

"You are now my shopping Sherpa." Waggling the black and white striped bag at him, she motions for him to take it.

"I am? Why?" His look is dubious, but he takes the bag.

"Full immersion in the shopping experience," she replies sagely, beginning to walk towards Bath & Body Works, trusting Dave to follow.

She takes him at his word and simply shops the way she normally would two Saturdays before Christmas, though she does show him some mercy when she sees a jacket and two pairs of pants in Ann Taylor she likes. She tries the jacket on without going to the fitting room, decides against it and then makes herself a promise to come back one night during the week to try on the pants. Rossi follows along and carries her packages without comment. He studies the way she looks at everything, listens intently to every comment she makes about whatever item she's contemplating, and after a while, she has the impression she and her shopping habits are being profiled. They're in the Godiva store, and she's just delivered a Reid-like lecture to him on how much better dark chocolate is than milk chocolate, which he receives with warm eyes and full attention, when the idea occurs to her. It flusters her and she flees to the nearest ladies room, her father's dark chocolate covered pretzels unpurchased.

She hides in a stall for a bit since there is a never-ending flow of women into and out of the restroom and though it's away from Rossi (and all of the other men in the mall), it's not really _private._ And Emily feels in desperate need of some privacy, or at the very least some _time_ to process her thoughts: _What if it's me?_ followed by _What if it's not?_

Emily has always been a little bit in love with David Rossi; as far as she knows, so have most of the women and more than a few of the men in the Bureau. But the bad-boy crush and the hero-worship have evolved into a deep and cherished friendship and a working relationship that she simply can not fuck up by making the wrong assumption, or worse, by acting on it. Because if she knew for sure, she _would_ act on it, without much more than a moment's consideration.

She's desperate for some time and a little space, a little distance to work it out in her head, to decide what to do. But she doesn't have any of that. What she has is a crowded public restroom and a newly opened world of possibilities.

What to do?

She could make a sudden, unexpected retreat, but if she is the someone special, if this new concept is real, then that could send the wrong message. Best to brave it out, she thinks and takes a deep breath as she finally slides the chrome door latch open and exits the stall. Hearing, but not listening to the conversations around her, Emily studies her reflection. She's a little pale, which is understandable, considering. She digs a tube of lipstick out of her purse and applies it liberally, then runs a hand through the ends of her hair to fluff it out. She studies her image a moment longer and with a mental _What the hell_ shrug, she unbuttons one more button on her blouse.

She sees him before he sees her; he's waiting patiently, casually sprawled in a chair in a sitting area very near the ladies room and the sight makes her heart give a funny little squeeze. There are a half dozen other men in the same area, some sitting, some leaning against the nearest wall; some look tired, others bored and in one case, entirely pissed off. But Dave is there, looking neither impatient nor bored, but maybe something close to expectant.

Don't fuck this up, she thinks. It's the part of her that is calm and cautious and doesn't take chances any more. She needs to be cautious, she knows: she doesn't want to ruin their friendship and she simply can't screw up their work relationship. But she also wants this, wants him and, if all he needs is to know she's interested, she needs to figure out the best way to let him know without ruining anything if she's read this wrong.

He looks up then and stands immediately when he sees her, gathering her packages as the chair he'd been seated in is immediately occupied by another grumpy male.

"They're sort of the antithesis of Christmas cheer, aren't they?" she asks, nodding to the group he'd just left.

Dave gives a small snort. "Shopping purgatory for the domesticated male."

Giving a little laugh in response, Emily takes a bag from his hand.

He raises an eyebrow. "Am I losing my status as shopping Sherpa?"

"No." She shakes her head. "I thought I'd share the burden. I don't want you to start looking like those men. I don't imagine it's a good look on anyone." Giving him a smile, she turns back to the Godiva store and gets her father's pretzels, and picks up a couple of the Godiva Santas for Henry and Jack.

They hit a few more stores, and Emily is trying to focus on her shopping, trying not to think about the possibility that Dave might want her, trying not to wonder how it would feel to kiss him every time she looks at his mouth, wondering what it would feel like to have his arms around her. There's a constant loop in her head of the same questions she'd asked herself in the restroom _What if it's me?_ always followed by _What if it's not?_ all while trying to find just the right evening wrap for her mother and maintain a conversation with Rossi without becoming stiff or coy with him.

It's exhausting.

"Do you mind if we take a break?" she finally asks. It's late in the afternoon and aside from a cup of coffee as they'd walked the second level and the pause for Emily's minor mental breakdown, they haven't really stopped.

"Not at all." He checks his watch. "It's a little early for dinner, but we didn't have lunch. There's a Harry's Tap Room downstairs. How about it?"

Emily had really been thinking about some chili cheese fries and a diet coke but a good meal and a glass of wine is appealing on every level there is. "God, that sounds like heaven," she all-but-moans.

Because of the time of day, there isn't much of a wait and she soon finds herself tucked into a booth with Dave asking, "Is Cabernet okay?" before ordering a bottle of Silver Oak.

Emily quickly decides on a Caesar salad with steak and puts down her menu. She tries to think of what shopping she's done, who she's purchased for, but she can't concentrate on much more than Rossi, glasses perched on the end of his nose as he peruses the menu.

She'd been fairly sure the worst part of her crush had passed as she'd gotten to know him, but now, with the possibility it's not hopeless, it seems to have flared up worse than before. And the sight of him in his glasses always leaves her a little weak in the knees, but today it kind of makes her want to lay all of her cards on the table, or, possibly, ask him to lay her on the table.

"Everything okay?" he asks, looking up from the menu.

She snorts inelegantly and shakes her head in the negative, while speaking in the affirmative. "Yeah."

He looks at her as if he doubts it and, yeah, _smart man_ she thinks before she adds, "Just worn out from shopping."

"You're worn out?" Rossi gives a snort of his own. "I'm an amateur. I'm going to need to take some comp time to recover from today. I'm an old man, Prentiss."

"Why do you keep saying that?" Her question is delivered a little more passionately than it probably should be, considering the question she is currently contemplating, but that's the second time in two days he's called himself old and whether this proceeds anywhere or not, he needs to stop that.

He holds up his hands defensively. "Just a reminder to myself that I'm not as young as I used to be."

"Isn't that the point?" She raises her eyebrows at him. "Every day we're a day older; if you're not as young as you used to be, that's a good thing, right?" Tilting her head, she gives him a little smile. "My grandfather used to say growing older was a privilege denied to far too many."

"He was right," Dave concedes gently. "I know I shouldn't forget that in the line of work we're in." He closes his menu and places it on the table.

"But?" She smooths a hand over the napkin in her lap.

He looks at her intently for a moment, face serious, his eyes warm but cautious. Then, he gives a small smile and shakes his head. "But nothing."

There's no food anywhere around, so she violates one of her mother's firm rules and puts her elbow on the table, just to be able to comfortably rest her chin in her palm. "I wouldn't give up anything I've gained to be twenty again."

"Twenty? God, no," he says, aligning the ends of his flatware.

"So?" She taps her fingers against her own cheek.

"It wouldn't be bad to be your age," he says. She notes with a certain amount of delight that he doesn't say "thirty-nine" or even "forty" but "your age." Then she starts feeling a little like she's back in high school, trying to learn to speak "boy" again and is immensely grateful when the waiter approaches the table.

It's so normal, sharing a meal and comfortable conversation, and she thinks she has to be wrong.

_It's Dave,_ she thinks, and if she's right, how could she have missed it? She is a profiler, after all. But then she knows the job they do is more intense than most, that there is an emotional intimacy between all of them that normal workmates don't experience. She and Dave are partnered together more than any of the others and he knows all of her secrets and she knows quite a few of his. It's almost ridiculous how afraid she is, how much she doesn't want to be wrong.

She allows herself to be caught up in conversation with him, hearing about all of those traditional Christmases he'd touched on the other night - about getting drunk for the first time at with his Uncle Sal on Christmas Eve, then having to go to Mass without his mother figuring it out. She counters with a story of meeting the Pope on Christmas day with a joint in her purse. And so it goes, one tale from each leading to a tale from the other: Christmas misadventures, familial mishaps, youthful missteps.

She's loathe to bring up the someone special or ask if he's any closer to solving the question of what to get her.

So she decides she's not going to. She'll wait; she'll think about it, she'll look for more, she'll see what he gives her for Christmas.

They decline dessert politely, but they linger over the last of the wine, then Rossi gets a cup of coffee. The only thing that keeps her from feeling badly about how long they tie up the table is knowing what a generous tipper Rossi is. And of course he's paying - he won't hear any different and she's too busy cataloging everything from his tone of voice to his body language to muster up the wherewithal to argue.

He quirks an eyebrow at her as he signs the credit card slip. "Once more into the breach?"

Emily stands, sliding her arms into her jacket. "No." She sighs. "I think I've done all the damage I can do for one day." Glancing at her watch, she gives a half smile. "One day and half an evening."

It could be real or it could be wishful thinking, but she is almost sure she sees a flicker of something like disappointment cross his face before his features go carefully blank and he nods. They both gather her packages and leave the restaurant.

"I'll help you to your car," he says as he holds the door for her. "Where did you park?"

She smiles at the chivalry, both of the door holding and helping her to her car and answers, "Thanks, but I took the Metro. I did not want to fight the traffic."

His frown is quick and, in her opinion, out of proportion. "You think you're going to carry all of this and then schlep it home from the Metro station? I don't think so, Prentiss. I'll give you a ride."

On a normal day, she'd argue. On a normal day, she might win. But today feels pivotal, today feels a little surreal, even if it's all in her head, she knows she's thinking about him differently and that, even if nothing ever changes between the two of them, changes everything. And, he's right, it'll be easier to get everything home by car. Besides, it's another few minutes in his company, and no matter what else, that's always enjoyable.

Except, this time, it's not.

It's too quiet in the enclosed space of the car with only the sound of the fan blowing warm air and the quiet hum of the engine. The silence between them feels sudden and strange without the constant jangle of the mall noise and the continual burble of a thousand different conversations. There's a nervous awkwardness between them, a feeling of forced intimacy in the shared space and Emily curses herself for letting herself do this to their friendship. The question was neither asked nor answered, there was no opportunity to be right or wrong, and still, somehow, she's fucked things up.

The space feels too close, too intimate and she wants a lot of things, but she doesn't want this, this strangeness, this loss of connection and friendship. She's struggling for something to say, a way to open a conversation that doesn't have the potential to be awkward, but all she really wants to say is "You can trust me."

They arrive at her place before she does come up with something to say, but before she can properly thank him for the ride, he's unloading packages from the trunk and she rolls her eyes at herself. Of course he's going to help her carry everything inside. She does some mental scrambling but remembers, with some relief, she'd straightened up last night, so while things might not be pristine, they shouldn't send him screaming, either.

He doesn't let her take any of the bags. "I'm seeing my Sherpa role through to the end." It's said lightly, the good humor evident in his voice and she wonders as she makes the way up the walk if maybe she's the only one who'd felt any awkwardness in the car. Maybe she's overthinking this, she thinks as she digs her key out of her purse.

Maybe she should just ask him.

She struggles for a moment both with her thoughts and the key, then gets the door open. Leading him down the hall, she wonders why the feel of him at her back tonight conjures images of skin warmed sheets and entwined limbs, when he's been at her back a thousand times out in the field. He drops the packages on the sofa at her direction, then shoves his hands into the pockets of his overcoat. "Thanks for today."

Emily laughs. "Thank you for dinner and hauling my packages and keeping me company." The smile she gives him is sincere. "You don't have anything to thank me for."

He gives a half shrug without removing his hands from his coat. "Yeah, I do." There's a look in his eyes, it's full of warmth and she supposes it could be friendship or gratitude, but really, she doesn't think it is.

Without much further thought, Emily steps forward, in to his personal space. "You shouldn't worry about what to get her. You should just let her know how you feel."

She sees him looking at her, but he doesn't look like he wants to back away. He clears his throat. "What if she's not interested?"

Emily thinks her heart might beat it's way out of her chest as she takes another small step towards him.

She repeats the thought she'd had earlier in the day. "She'd be a fool."

One of Rossi's hands comes up and pushes her hair behind her ear. "She's definitely not a fool." His thumb traces the line of her jaw and Emily finds herself swallowing a sudden onslaught of tears at the tender stroke against her skin.

She shifts forward again until they're almost touching. He looks at her and there is no mistaking the naked yearning there and she wonders how she didn't see it before or why she hadn't trusted herself to see it today.

"I think I'm too old for her," he says seriously, as his thumb continues its gentle movement against her jaw and his eyes roam over her features.

"That should be her decision," she replies softly, fighting the urge to lean into him.

Slowly, his fingers slide into her hair, stroking lightly against the curve of her skull, his touch warm and sensual. She's struggling to keep her eyes from sliding closed under his touch, but she needs to see him, see the expression on his face, see the warmth in his eyes.

His eyes are heavy lidded now, and she's almost sure he wants to fall into her as much as she wants to fall into him, totally and completely.

"Emily." His voice is a gravelly rumble. "I want to kiss you."

Her stomach flips and her heart stutters, as she puts a hand on the back of his neck. "I want you to kiss me."

"Good." Emily feels the puff of his breath against her mouth as he speaks, but she doesn't have time to answer as his lips touch hers. At first it's almost chaste, a press of his mouth to her mouth and she pushes back, lips on lips.

Finally, she lets herself fall.

He's surprisingly gentle at first; not that she ever thought he'd be a rough or a clumsy kisser, but she's so used to thinking of him as demanding and assertive, she's a little thrown off by the soft play of his lips over hers, the tender touch of his mouth on her mouth. He moves a little and presses a light kiss to the corner of her mouth, then her top lip and her right cheek and temple. He kisses his way across her eyelid and the bridge of her nose to her other eye, repeating the same path of kisses in reverse on that side of her face, until he's back at her lips. Still light, still soft, his lips on hers again, then she feels the delicate touch of his tongue against the seam of her lips. She opens to him easily, gladly, and he's there, mouth on mouth, tongue against tongue and it's not just a new kiss, it's a whole new world.

Slow and sweet, she lets herself taste him. There's a hint of the wine they'd had at dinner, a trace of the coffee he'd had after, but under that is Dave, warm and alive, and she sinks into it, into him, completely.

"Emily," he says against her mouth.

She hums in response and wraps both arms around his neck, letting herself be carried away, absorbing the feel of his hands in her hair, fingers against her neck, his mouth on hers. She'd heard Reid expound once on the Big Bang Theory, about the ever-expanding universe and somehow, here, now, in the middle of her own living room, in the circle of Dave's arms, it's almost as if she can feel it expanding around her and through her.

It's only the absolute _need_ she has to touch him, to feel the warmth of him, to feel muscle and skin, that allows her to break the kiss. She's unbuttoning his coat while he's trying to kiss the top of her head, to capture her hands or her mouth or any part of her to lay his lips against and all she wants to do is get the damn coat off of him. Then, of course he wants to get rid of hers. She goes to toss both of their coats on the sofa and somehow she ends up laid out against the cushions instead with David Rossi over her, kissing her and touching her and both coats are on the floor.

"Emily." He says her name against her neck. "Emily." Then against her ear. "Emily." He breathes it against the upper part of her chest, just where her breasts begin to crest and swell and who knew the feel of someone's breath against your skin could make you shudder and want to purr?

Being kissed by David Rossi is like being in a mosh pit or in the zone on the firing range or dancing tipsy or having a perfectly Zen moment; it's being completely immersed in sensation, just experiencing, just feeling...not worrying about how she looks or what to say or what her next move should be. She acts because she wants to, she reacts because it feels good.

_More, more, more_ sings in her head, thrums in tandem with her heart and it's that thought that has her hand reaching for the buttons of his shirt, the need to touch his skin, to keep falling into this, into him.

Except he doesn't seem to feel the same way, since she's barely gotten more than one button undone and her fingers are stroking against the skin that covers his collarbone when he pulls back. His eyes are heavy lidded and dark, and though she wouldn't say he's panting she can definitely see the rise and fall of his chest; she wants to _feel_ that, feel the expansion and compression of his chest against her. "Emily," he starts, pulling away but she reaches up and pulls him back. "Em-" but the rest is cut off under her lips and they collapse into another kiss, lips and tongues and hands and fingers stroking across skin.

It's only when she goes for the next button that he seems to remember that he had something to say and pulls away from her mouth again. He refuses to be distracted this time, moving far enough away from her mouth where she has to arch up to press a kiss to his chin, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. "Emily."

"Hmmmm?" She kisses his goatee again, wondering how the hairs could be both soft and bristly at the same time.

"I don't want you to feel-" He shivers a little as she nips at his chin. "I don't want to press you into anything you're not ready for."

"Oh, no, I'm ready. Let's get this over with."

Later, she'll blame him and the way he'd completely short-circuited her brain for her poor word choice. Later, he'll tell her it's only that he's used to her being only slightly less socially awkward than Reid and continually sticking her foot in her mouth that keeps him there. But in this moment, his eyebrows come together and his mouth opens slightly and he gets a _look_ on his face right at the same time her own words sink into her addled consciousness. The thing is, the look is more incredulous and ironic than offended or angry.

"Prentiss, you sweet talker, you." He draws back a little more.

If she were really smart, she'd hope for a hole to open up for her to crawl into. Instead, she just laughs, a nervous laugh, but, still. "No, no," she says, pushing up, pushing against him, until he's sitting and she straddles him. She takes his face in her hands, palms aligned with his jaw, fingers splayed across his cheeks. "Listen." Just to make sure she has his full attention, she kisses him, long and slow, putting years of infatuation turned to attraction and affection and intimacy into the kiss. It's all feeling and sensation and she keeps kissing him until she's sure he's right here with her, that he can't mistake how she feels or what she wants.

She smiles when she feels his hands curve around her hips, pulling her in a little closer. Her toes are curling and she feels flushed and if she's going to explain, she needs to do it now so they can move on to other, more important matters.

"That came out totally wrong, and you know it. I want you and you know that, too." She touches her lips against his earlobe. "And I want you now." Her fingers scratch through the hair at the nape of his neck. "I don't want to wait. I want..." Taking a deep breath, she says what she's thinking instead of analyzing how embarrassing or dorky it might sound. "I want us to be lovers. Now. I want to know that this is real and not something I dreamed. I don't want you to leave here without-" She makes a frustrated noise, but she's determined to get through this. "Then have it be weird and awkward the next time I see you wondering if you still want me or if you'll ask me out and when or if I'll ever get to make love with you."

He reaches up and takes one of her hands, he puts his lips against her palm, his eyes soft and warm. Then he threads both hands into her hair, fingers warm and strong and he pulls her towards him. The kiss lingers and deepens and reality gets soft around the edges. When they break, they're both breathing heavy and she's having trouble keeping her eyes open. "So." His voice is a little raspy and a little ragged and it makes her want to touch herself. "Do you want to go upstairs and get this over with?"

Emily laughs, low and free, then presses herself against him, being sure to put a nice amount of pressure against his erection as she does so. Nipping at his lip, then soothing with her tongue, she sighs against his mouth. "Absolutely."

The passion's there simmering between them, just on the edge of a boil, but there's no need to rush, no need to hurry. He turns off the lights while she locks the doors, then holding hands, they climb the stairs together.

Because he's a profiler, she expects him to look around her room, but his attention is completely focused on her, on lifting her hair and pressing a kiss to her neck, the warmth of his mouth and the swipe of his tongue wringing a moan from her unexpectedly. Dave doesn't seem to mind though, since he does the same thing on the other side, his hands smoothing stripes down her side, up her back when all she can do is throw her head back and hold on to him for dear life.

"Dave," she gasps. She wants so much from him, wants him to touch her, wants to touch him, but she's suddenly become incapable of verbalizing, she's only able to feel. Legs trembling, she collapses on to the bed, pulling him with her.

"Emily," he rumbles against the base of her throat and she feels his fingers working the buttons of her blouse and _god_ she _hates_ clothes right now. She wants to feel his skin, every part of his skin, against her skin, every part of her skin. The feel of his warm lips against her chest draws another moan from her as she imagines his mouth _everywhere_. It has her pushing against him, rolling him so she can wriggle out of her blouse. She loves the way his eyes darken at the sight of her over him, breasts straining against the lace and she thanks fate that she's wearing one that's just as pretty as it is functional. Dave's hand comes up to stroke the tops of her breasts but she stays focused, unbuttoning his shirt as his fingers trace lines and curves over her skin.

God, she wants him. All of him. The thought is not new but it is staggering in this moment as his other hand strokes up her side, the feel of his thick fingers making her shudder and lean in to their warmth. She nearly whimpers when she sees he has a t-shirt on under his shirt, but she pulls on his hands instead. "Sit up," she huffs. "Get your shirts off." Emily is aware she sounds short and he didn't set out to frustrate her when he dressed this morning, but the _need_ to feel him has gotten the better of her. Except when he sits up and the shirt slides off and she begins pulling the t-shirt up and over, he shifts in such a way that everything lines up _perfectly_ between her clit, his erection and the seam of her jeans. He's kissing across her chest and she's grinding against him in sudden, mindless lust.

"Fuck," he growls, panting against her neck, fingers fumbling at her back for the clasp of her bra.

Emily is past the point of caring what she looks like or what she sounds like, though she can hear every low groan she makes as she rubs off against him, feeling the want and the heat curling low in her belly, nerves on fire, every thought, every sensation centering in her tingling clit and throbbing pussy. It's driving her higher and tighter with every shift of her body.

Rossi appears to have given up on the bra clasp, one of his hands sliding into a cup to stroke against her pebbled nipple as he rumbles against her throat. "Fuck, Emily, you are so gorgeous. Come for me." He kisses her cleavage. "I want you to come." Then his mouth, hot and wet, closes over her other nipple through the satin of her bra and something inside her cracks, spirals and flies loose as she arches against him, coming harder than she ever has before.

Her own panting is all she hears as she comes back to herself, but she feels Dave as he shifts her, gently, off of him, undoing her bra before laying her down. Then he unbuttons her jeans, sliding them and her panties down her hips until he makes a surprised noise.

"What?" she asks, though it really sounds more like "wa?" as though she's too loose and lazy, satisfied and sated to even bother forming a complete one syllable word.

"How do you still have your shoes on?" He sounds a little incredulous and a tiny bit irritated. It strikes her as terribly funny and she can't help it, she starts giggling as she feels him slip off her shoes and slide her jeans the rest of the way off and on to the floor.

The rasp of a zipper and the rustle of clothing only make her giggle harder, so that when he climbs back on the bed _finally_ completely naked she rolls on top of him so he can feel her joy moving from her body into his. "Prentiss," he says in that tone that she knows is supposed to be curmudgeonly, but really hides quite a bit of fondness, "you are behaving like a nutjob. What's so funny?"

Emily is busy soaking up the sensation of skin on skin, breasts pressed in to chest, the rough hair of his legs, the velvety hardness of his cock pressing against her stomach, so it takes her a minute to answer. "I was just thinking it's a little funny that I have the best orgasm of my life with my shoes on."

His arms close around her, hands stroking against her back, down to cup her ass, but she's too busy pressing kisses into his neck, against his shoulder to see the expression on his face. But from the way he says, "Best of your life, huh?" He's got that cocky, smug look on his face. Though, honestly, she's not sure she minds.

Still.

Sitting up she says, "That just means you have a standard to maintain." She watches the way his eyes go straight to her breasts and she fights the desire to laugh again. But the look that comes over his face as he reaches out to cup them gently in his hands makes her not want to laugh at all.

"I'll see if I can keep improving," he replies, thumbs stroking across her nipples and she has to make herself move away before she gets distracted again. Leaning in, she kisses him, hot and wet. It's not passionate, it's not naughty, it's downright dirty, lips and teeth and tongue and raw desire all stroking against each other.

His hands go for her hips but she slides off of him too quickly, laying down beside him, tangling her legs with his, pressing the wet flesh of her pussy against his hip, a fingernail scratching against one nipple, teeth scraping against the other. He groans at that, so she sucks as she reaches for him. His cock is hard and leaking as she takes him in hand, the pre-ejaculate slick against her palm as she slides over the head and stroking down the shaft. The groan he gives is a nice compliment, but she hasn't even gotten started.

She kisses her way down his stomach, working him with her hand as she slides. When she comes to faintly wet area where she'd been pressed against him, she inhales deeply. "Can you smell me, Dave? Can you smell how wet I am?" He makes a sound that was probably meant to be a 'yes' but is too guttural to be intelligible, but she answers as if she could understand. When she runs her tongue across the spot, tasting herself and him, his hips stutter. "Does that let you know how hot I am for you?" She scratches her nails through the hair of his thighs and listens to him make the same noise.

"I suppose you're aware," she purrs as she cups his balls in one hand, still stroking him with the other, "you have a really beautiful dick." His hands are fisted in the covers of her bed and she's willing to bet he's fighting grabbing her. She kisses the head of his cock lightly, then licks him up and down, with broad, wet strokes of her tongue, enjoying the noises he's making, each one adding another layer of want at the base of her spine.

She's very deliberate to let her breath blow across him when she speaks again. "I'm going to suck your cock Rossi, then when you're harder than you've ever been before, I want you to fuck me and make me come again."

She puts her lips loosely around the head, holding it in the warm wetness of her mouth as she strokes the skin behind his balls. He arches against the bed and up into her mouth and she sucks him in. "Jesus, Em," he pants, but she's not listening, instead she's concentrating on the feel of him in her hand, the musky, salty taste of him in her mouth, the way, after that first movement into her mouth, he lets her move against him, not trying to control it or her, just letting her touch and taste and feel. The want is crawling all over her skin, dancing along her nerves, and she loves the feel of him in her mouth but she wants to feel him moving inside her. Dave's touching her as she sucks and licks him, light touches in her hair, along her shoulders, down her arms until she wants to scream at him to touch her; please, god, she's going to go crazy if he doesn't touch her soon. Then, finally, he's pulling on her arm with a choked, "Emily" and his cock slides out of her mouth with a wetly obscene _pop_ and they both shudder.

"Now," he groans, reaching for a condom packet that hadn't been on the nightstand the last time she looked.

"Now," she agrees, nearly sobbing. There's a moment of confusion as they both try to roll on the condom, but she gives a ragged laugh and lays back, because she wants him and it doesn't matter how, as long as it happens now.

Then he's over her, pulling one leg over his hip as she reaches for him, stroking him as she brings him inside her body.

_Fuck,_ she thinks.

"Fuck," he growls as he slides all the way in.

For all of their urgency of a minute before, neither of them moves. He's inside her, stretching her and it feels beyond good, it feels _right._ She can feel him breathing, the rise and fall of his chest against hers, the little pants of breath against her skin.

His eyes are dark and there's something in the way he looks at her that is so delicate, so vulnerable her throat thickens and she has to blink against stinging eyes. She lifts her hand to his cheek, her thumb stroking across his cheekbone and she gives him a smile that might be a little shaky, but she knows he sees everything in her eyes when he bends to kiss her. It's soft and sweet and makes her want to cry at the tenderness behind it. "Emily," he rumbles against her lips.

"I know," she whispers. "Dave, I know."

She arches against him gently and he rocks into her.

It's a sweet, slow ride from there, like climbing a set of stairs up a mountain, each step taking them both a little higher, each movement winding them a little tighter. Emily feels everything, the sparse hair on his chest, the muscles moving beneath his skin, the heat and heft of him between her thighs. She's starting to climb higher and faster. She wants him so much, she wants this so much, it's bubbling up in her chest, it's singing in her veins, it's like her skin is on fire as she starts to bounce her hips against him as he thrusts.

"Yeah?' he chokes out, moving against her a little faster, a little harder, changing his angle just enough that he's pushing against her clit with every thrust.

Words are beyond her, even one as simple as "yes" so she just gives something like a nod and grasps his hips. She arches up against him, moving with him hard and fast, drinking in his moan and gasp as he moves with her, her own noise and needs tumbling out of her as she coils so tight, tighter and tighter and tighter until she feels him shudder against her, then she flies apart, shattering into a million brilliantly colored shards.

It takes even longer to come back to herself this time; it's Dave pulling out and moving off of her that brings her back with a whimper of protest.

"Shhh." He kisses her forehead and she knows he has to deal with the condom but she hates the loss of him for even a minute. It's not much more than that before he's pulling her against him, wrapping her up in his arms, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. She's languid, but not really sleepy, so she just soaks everything in, the stroke of his fingers against her hair, the warmth of his chest under her cheek, the way he smells with the scents of musk and perspiration coming off of him. She sighs contentedly.

"You okay?" His chest rumbles beneath her cheek.

"Mmmm, yeah," she practically purrs. "I'm feeling pretty great."

"Me, too." His arm tightens around her. "Good thing we got that over with."

She laughs for a long time after, but he finally manages to kiss her quiet.


End file.
